


Flesh

by chibihaley



Series: Larseo and Sadiet [2]
Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Ableist Language, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood, Blood Loss, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Creepy, Depression, Disturbing Themes, Explicit Consent, Explicit Language, F/M, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Lars is projecting feelings of self-loathing onto Ronaldo if that isn't clear, Meta, Self-Harm, Self-Loathing, Sensitive themes, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Lars (Steven Universe), fatphobic language, lars is an asshole, lars is trans, slight larsnaldo hinted at
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 08:31:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14667288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibihaley/pseuds/chibihaley
Summary: Be mindful of the tags.Please do not read if you are easily disturbed or triggered by suicidal thoughts and actions.Call this number if you need help: 1-800-273-8255That being said, this is the second addition to my Larseo and Sadiet series, it can be read without context. Lots of hurt with no real comfort. Lars is cruel to himself and others.





	Flesh

_I don't ever think what I want could be considered love_

_But it is what I want anyway_

_Beauty in the dark, fragile heart, see the end from the start_

_I don't ever think what you need could be considered me_

_Still you drop everything anyway_

 

            Lars thought he had enough of this.

 

            In the makeup of the human DNA, everyone has the slightest fraction of some flavor of deranged coded into their structure. Some have psychosis, others have fetishes, a good portion of the population have a combination of the two. Most people indulge in guilty pleasures, or pleasurable pain. The slightest drop of blood can send a man into a frenzy. The taboo is often fantasized to great descriptive lengths, but kept secret and never acted upon. The macabre is best enjoyed from a safety net, under the veil of fiction, until the end. The words despicable and hypocritical come to mind, but all in all: humankind is a naughty race.

            Lars despises every single human on this godforsaken planet.

            "What do you mean you aren't selling it?" He shouted into the phone, kicking a pile of dirty clothes in his wake, "You have to! It's the release! You're the only store I'm allowed in anymore!"

            "I'm sorry, sir," The voice of a receptionist from a video game store the next county over attempted to placate the screaming ball of rage on the other line, "The midnight release of Army of War Two is for select stores only. Our store won't be receiving it until sometime tomorrow. You can try Beach City Game-"

            He hung up and chucked his phone to the other side of the room with an unflattering grunt. Fuck this. He smashed the play button on his boom box and thrashing metal blared out of the small speakers, filling the white noise of his room and appropriately scoring the tempest of chaos raging in his feverish head. He yanked out the drawer from his dresser, pulling it off the hinges. It hit the floor with a loud crash, reverberating throughout the creaking attic. All his secret baking utensils, kitchen knives, and testosterone pill jars clattered together. His nose started to drip. He wiped it and forced himself not to cry like a two-year-old even though his eyes burned and his head threatened to explode with frustration. How could he be so stupid? Nothing goes right for him, not even something as simple as his favorite fucking video game.

            He had a wide collection to choose from. Whatever his hand landed on first. Eeny, meeny, miny, moe.

            From the broken drawer he exhumed a Funayuki style knife, one with a rounded handle and a needle nose that could fly through garlic, shallots, and onions like butter. He wondered if it could perform similarly with his wrists.

            In one fell swoop, one hastily drawn breath, without a second thought, he clumsily slashed his arm.

           

            The knife fell to the carpet, bouncing once. The boy followed, collapsing to his knees. He hissed in pain, tears spilling down now. The pain was unbearable. He can't even cut himself right. He hated this body. Hated it, hated it, hated it. This tender skin trapped him, he wanted to claw his way out or rip it to shreds. Tear away the parts he didn’t like so he could finally breathe. With a shaking hand and shrinking resolve, he nervously retrieved the blade back into his faltering grip. The knife danced over his wrist in his trembling hand, searching for a blank space between the white lines dashed down his slender forearm. The new slice in his arm reddened and blood started to peek out from the fissure. He couldn't look at it. With eyes shut tightly, he switched arms, heaved a shaky breath, then quickly granted himself a mark the size of a paper cut. The pain and shock forced his eyes and mouth to open.

            This one wouldn't even bleed.

            Goddammit.

            Useless.

            He used the fury granted by his incompetence to power his strike once more over the same pathetic cut.

            Fucking SHIT.

            That hurt like hell.

            But it made him forget about the world, the harbinger of void on the other line of the phone, and the pain on his other arm. So, he switched back. He deserved this, to forget, to feel better, if only for one fucking second. Sleeves of blood dripped down now, sprinkling tiny stains into the carpet. He was cutting too deep. He wasn't used to this much blood. The sight made his stomach turn and his breath shallow. He deliberately positioned the knife higher up, nearing his elbow. Cold iron brushed against his soft skin. Stop going so deep. Stop acting so half hazardous. He tried to breathe, sucking in air through his gritted teeth and releasing it through puffed cheeks. He squinted his eyes shut. Just as he was about to inflict another wound to his menagerie of scars, he heard a familiar voice faintly breaking through the shrill chorus of guitars.

            "Laramie? Is everything okay up there?"

            His mother, always meddling. She would never dare to actually climb up into the attic. This was his dominion. Past disruptions have led to calamitous ramifications. But similarly, everything had to always be okay or he would never hear the end of it.

            With the steadiest voice he could conjure, he replied indignantly, "I'm fine, mom!"

            Her voice held a trace of doubt, but a good mother believes her son. "Okay, breakfast is waiting, sweetie! Your dad and I are off to work!"

            "I know, bye!" He had no time for gratitude or even acknowledgements. He didn't know why his mother still spoke to him. It was as if she thought she could save him with a mere greeting and needless schedule update. He wouldn't eat her pity breakfast. He didn't care where she went. The faster he dismissed her, the faster he could escape this world and give into the stinging sensation of life and shut out the endless numbness. She made everything worse from the moment of his existence that he never asked for. Since she first held his small, frail form in her arms and uttered the repulsive name drowned out by his wailing.

            Laramie.

            Laramie.

            Laramie.

            The sound of the name was like a hundred-thousand witches nails raking against a chalkboard. In his mouth, the name burned his tongue like acid. He wanted to scream. But this is the name he was cursed with at birth. He could never erase the putrid name no matter how hard he tried. He should write it into his arm, brand himself like everyone else does. To remember.

           

            L

            ...

 

            A

            -

 

            ---

 

 

 

            R̶

           

            .--.

           

           

            /

 

            A̶̬̰̍̇͜

           

           

            .-.

           

            .

           

 

            .-

           

            -..

 

            ..

 

            -.

            M̸̛͎

            --.

 

            Darkness.

 

            .... .... .... ....

           

            Light. He blinked slowly awake into the blurry, grayscale room. His arms felt limp and as if they had shriveled up, drained of fluids, encased in a shell of dried gore, but the injured limbs still stung and itched. He sat up from the damp carpet floor and nearly blacked out again. The stench of iron nauseated him now. He stumbled to his feet, swaying, dizziness swirling in his foggy vision. He wondered aloud what time he had missed since the start of his sick indulgences of self-hatred. His bleary eyes drifted to the time on the digital clock on his dresser.

            Nine-thirty.

            Nine-thirty?

            Oh, fuck.

            The Big Donut opens at seven-thirty.

            Sadie was going to kill him.

            No. Sadie would never be the death of him. He would come up with an excuse, like always.

            Car troubles? That wouldn't work. Sadie knew he didn't own a car and would never do something so shameful as accept a ride from either of his parents, even if his life depended on it. Even if it meant inconveniencing Sadie.

            Slept in? That was hardly an excuse as it was, and he has used it ad nauseam, even if it was the truth.

            It was not like he cared if Sadie had to wait up for him. Management didn't really exist. Mayor Dewey technically owned the Big Donut, if owning an establishment only entails throwing money at it every once in a while. Any time the two employees thought he was coming in for maintenance, in reality he was just coming in for a donut and coffee. They did everything. Well, Sadie did everything. Lars just watched.

            The self-deprecating thoughts were beginning to resurface in Lars' ocean of nothing. He didn't have time to draw out another knife. He sighed. He stood and drifted from place to place, unsure of how he got there, operating on autopilot. Icy water from the sink washed over his crumbling arms. It stung, but in a strangely euphoric way. It was his flavor of aphrodisiac. He could breathe again. Washing the knife was a necessary procedure, and one that he also took some guilty pleasure in. The transfixing reds and pinks danced down the drain until there was nothing left.

            He dabbed the ensanguined carpet with a warm rag, but it didn't do much good. He felt a touch ashamed. He has never bled so much before. He has never hurt himself so ruthlessly, so sloppily. Another, deeper part of him felt sinfully proud of his masterpiece. Every time he would glance at the floor from now on, he would see his art and remember what damnable pleasures took place here. No one would ever see this, but if they had they would admire the lengths he went to administer rightful punishment. It may even be deserving of praise. It made him smile, and shudder.

           

            The walk from his house to work wasn't far or stimulating, leaving even less of an excuse for his tardiness. Sadie was aware of this. There was nothing, save for the smelly beach and moldy storefronts. It was otherwise a wasteland. He avoided all the old, nasty gum plastered to the rotting boardwalk. A dog barked in the distance.

            Lars couldn't remember the last time he saw a dog, except for that one awful time Steven showed him that dumb trailer for a retarded-looking movie called something stupid like "Dogcopter 2." What an idiot. That Steven gets on his fucking nerves sometimes. He's always ruining something with his weird belly-button. He bet that dog he thought he heard wasn't actually a dog, but some bizarre mutant-gem abomination.

            That's it.

            Lars' story. He would tell Sadie that he got attacked by some weird dog on the way there. Maybe he'd even show her some blood to up the ante. She would feel so bad! He could hear her piteous cries now, "Aw, poor Lars! Why don't you take the whole day off?" He snickered. It was the perfect plan.

            His arms itched.

           

            When he opened the door, he was greeted by the familiar, earsplitting door chime and the equally familiar, half-lidded, unimpressed stare from his coworker. The store was empty, as usual.

            "Oh, look who decided to show up. Sleep in again?"

            "No, Sadie," he moaned, limping forward. He momentarily amused himself at the brief thought that if he were a street performer, he would hold out a hat with a sign that said 'Spare guilt?' Sadie played the unwilling audience. Showtime. "You wouldn't believe it!"

            "Great pitch," Sadie deadpanned, "I can't wait to hear the rest of your excuse. Disbelief was the last thing I would have expected to feel."

            "I was attacked! By dogs! See?" He opened his palm to her. Red dripped through his slight fingers from what he hoped was an indiscernible source. He had scratched at the fresh cuts and past scabs on his way, letting the blood flow freely. To be honest, he didn't mean for it to pour as much as it did now- it was a bit overkill. He must have dug deeper into his veins than he thought. Like a curious puppy, he watched as Sadie's expression changed from dull to horrified.

            "Oh my gosh!" She panicked, "Lars! Are you okay? I didn't even know anybody owned dogs in Beach City!"

            Ha, she bought it. "Me neither! I think it was one of Steven's weird gem things. You know Steven, always creating something new and horrible that seems to like attacking me."

            She laughed nervously at his calmness about the situation. "That's not ketchup, right?"

            Regardless of the lie, Lars was offended. He didn't go through this for Sadie to think that it was some sort of cheap prank. This was art. This was his life. "No! It's real blood and it really hurts!"

            She floundered, "Ah! Okay, uh, well, don't touch the donuts! I think there's a first aid kit in the back, let me go get it."

            "I can get it myself. If I can't touch the donuts then I shouldn't be the one watching the store." He mocked her.

            "Right, " She blushed. She was cute when she blushed. She made this adorable nervous smile with her eyebrows all furrowed, eyes bright. She huddled into her arms and her pale blonde waves puffed up around her shoulders like soft, fluffy clouds. Maybe Lars had lost too much blood, he was starting to feel woozy around her. "It should be on the bottom shelf to the left when you walk in."

            "Huh?" He kind of spaced out for a moment. What were they talking about? Oh, right, blood, first aid- "I know where it is! I work here too, you know!"

            "Hardly!" She spat. Then, as if realizing her lapse of memory at the event that had just taken place, she recovered her demure character and said more gently, "Sorry, yeah. You go patch yourself up."

            He turned the key in the lock, swung the heavy door to the back ajar, and quickly entered, shutting it behind him. His sleeve was slowly becoming stained with blood. He'd have no choice but to throw yet another long-sleeved shirt in a alleyway dumpster. This paycheck would hopefully allow him to afford replacements, again. All his money went toward pretending to be okay.

            He figured since Sadie was already made aware of his current state, the state in which his insides slowly became outside, he may as well finish what he started. There had to be something, anything sharp he could use back here. Scissors? No, his wandering eyes landed on one better.

            A box cutter.

            Despite his brash cutting style, he greatly preferred devices that promised precision and effectiveness, if only for the encouraging concept that he could wield a blade with the intended amount of finesse. He clutched the box cutter in his hand and clicked the knife out of its protective shell. Much like his sharpened kitchen knives, this tool was thin with a fine point. A more than acceptable instrument for his new art project.

            He rolled up his sleeve until it bundled around his elbow tightly, unintentionally sufficing as a makeshift tourniquet. He darkly wondered if he would bleed more with his veins increasing in size at the pressure. He might have to wash off the crimson deluge in the restroom sink. Either way, he had a mission to fulfill, and that was to complete his bloody signature. This time, he consciously decided he would scribe with lower-case letters. The distinction between the two cases would then be evident. The capitalized side is what he was unable to finish, the remaining i and e was his punishment made doubly. It was somewhat metaphorical of his shortcomings. In addition to this artistic choice, he relished the idea of stabbing the dot into the i̵̦̣̐ and swirling the e̴̮   in a way that would somehow appear more painfully feminine.

            With great concentration, he meticulously followed through, though he grunted and kicked and teared up in the grueling process. This is what he deserved. Lars broke his skin and watched the red pool up from the slices and dots and surprisingly deep curves. When it was done, like a tattoo, he wiped the blood a few times, smearing it across his skin until it faded in streaks, and admired his work. He was relieved. Finally, he did it without fainting, without dropping the knife. Finally, he did something right. It was cool. It was almost beautiful. He liked it. He almost wanted...more. But what? He would run out of space if he kept painting marks in this fashion, lest he run over the lines. Maybe he would, later, once these faded into white, raised scars.

            He could hardly wait.

            A chime resonated throughout the store. A customer? Really? It was probably just Steven. That kid was pretty much the only business this lousy donut store ever got. He would say this business owed him a lot, but Sadie usually let the kid have most of his purchase on the house on account of him being so young and maybe with some respect to his whole "saving the world hero" shtick. Lars had a sneaking suspicion that Steven was the one who would consistently cause the world to be in need of saving in the first place, however. Why do they have to be indebted to his weird, world-threatening space problems? No one would have to fear for their lives if Steven could just be normal.

            He was at the very least thankful for not being forced to endure the kid's abrasive antics at the counter. Sadie would cover for him... right? Shit. If she tells Steven that he's hurt right now, that will probably cause the kid's magic belly button to break out or something. He'd be all like, "I'll save you with my self-mutilation reversal boogers!" Moron. He groaned and actually began looking for the first aid kit.

            That's when he heard yelling.

            Not antagonistic yelling per se, but loud, deeper, and urgent, nothing like Steven's voice. Still, it was a voice that was bitingly familiar yet he couldn't place where he's most certainly heard it before. He pressed his gaged ear against the thick, break room door and strained to eavesdrop on the conversation between Sadie and this mysterious customer. The man was grousing something about how donuts, with their geometrically congruous nature, are the perfect hide out for sneeple.

            Of course. He was surprised he didn't recognize that annoying voice sooner. It's been years since he's heard of Ronaldo.

            In fact, the last memory he had of his ex best friend was the day Lars confessed. The memory doused him with nausea. He made himself too vulnerable too soon, he should have known better. Ronaldo didn't even ask. Lars blurted it out against his better judgment.

            His younger voice, small and overcompensating, echoed in his mind.

            _"I'm not who everyone says I am. I'm not what I look like."_   

            _"What are you talking about? Are you... an alien? Ooh! Wait, wait, don't say it until I get the tape recorder!"_

            _"Ronnie, stop! No! I mean, I want to be a boy!"_ He screamed, fist clenched, teeth grating, eyes downcast in shadow.

            _"Oh, well, sure Lara- Lars. You can be whoever you want."_

            _"Really?"_ He remembered the hope. He remembered how his heart felt warm, how he could breathe.

            And then, in what only felt like seconds later, an overpowering chill frosted over his insides.

            _"What's wrong with you? Don't you know how important this was? Why do you care so much about what other people think?"_

            He cringed and slid down the door onto the tile. Those words haunted his memory. He swore he's heard them millions of times, over and over. He was stupid enough to believe he could trust his best friend at the time, but he inevitably betrayed him. Doesn't _he_ know how important Lars' identity was? He didn't care at all. That loser was lucky Lars put up with him for so long. Now? That betrayer could die for all he cared.

            Blood dripped onto his jeans.

            Whatever.

            He heard Sadie laughing. Pure and free, shoulder-bouncing kind of laughter. It stung to know it was the result of someone else. Of course she was laughing, Ronaldo was nothing but a big joke, after all. But, this sounded different. Genuine. She was not laughing at him. He was making her laugh.

            Sadie never laughed like that around Lars. So uninhibited. So lovely.

            Fuck this.

            He pulled down his sleeves, slammed the door open and announced, "I can't find it."

            Sadie, recovering from her bout of laughter, wiping tears hugging the corners of her waterline, said breathily, "Oh, hah, hey Lars! Have you met Ronaldo?"

           The man in question's demeanor immediately diminished. The cordial vibes dissipated and, if it were possible, the steaming loathing would have evaporated from his pores and called upon a wicked storm powerful enough to rip the roof off of the establishment. Sadie immediately noticed the jarring shift.

            "Oh, hey... Lars." Ronaldo said, calculating, but timid. The way he paused before saying his name proved that he had consciously chosen to say Lars instead of his dead name. However stupid Lars deemed him to be, his old friend knew exactly how to piss him off in a heartbeat.

            Lars took in Ronaldo's appearance. They idly saw each other passing by in the background here and there throughout the years, in which they would pretend not to see the other and expect one of them to leave the premises entirely or go through the tireless effort of avoiding one another for the duration. Now that he was standing in front of him, fully acknowledging his presence, he couldn't help but notice how much weight he put on. He was always a big kid, but damn. He had not aged well in their time apart. His flame patterned Hawaiian shirt was nearly bursting at the seams and dark eye bags hung heavily underneath his glasses. Lars hated him. Hated him, hated him, hated him. So fucking much. He couldn't believe he almost thought he missed him. How could he ever miss a thing like that? He was thankful for his air not being polluted by this mouth breathing neck beard. To think his life could have been so very different if they stayed friends. He would never get in with the cool kids if Ronaldo had stuck to him like a parasite.

            Lars was still working on getting the cool kids' attention. It would come. Patience is a virtue, or whatever.

            After a long and awkward silence of Lars refusing to greet his abandoned friend turned enemy, Sadie tapped her fingers anxiously on the counter before parting.

            "Okay, well, I'll go find that first aid kit. Maybe it fell over or something." She said and walked towards the door. Towards Lars.

            Sadie.

            He broke the standoff with Ronaldo to draw his attention to the girl who was guffawing at this dumbass' comments only minutes prior. He was angry at her, but less angry than he was at Ronaldo. To think he could lose this best friend as well, as if every best friend were designed to rip him apart limb from limb, one by one...

            Did she think he was funnier than him? More interesting? Less of a burden? That's impossible. He would not allow it. Sadie was his. He would not let Ronaldo take that away from him too. Sadie should know better. He would teach her, and his new audience. If there's one sure fire possession he had over Ronaldo, it was Sadie.

            He blocked her path abruptly.

            One thing he loved about Sadie was the remarkable difference in height. Here, he towered over her. She looked so small and he felt so big. It made him smile in a way that probably came across as more shit-eating than he intended. She faltered. He caught her.

            "Hey, Sadie," He said, low and sultry, as low as his voice could afford without cracking. He wrapped a lithe arm around her shoulder and flicked his gaze toward Ronaldo to catch his reaction. He wanted his witness on the edge of his seat until the gnawing envy was too much to bear. Ronaldo scowled, crossed his arms and threw his eyes up to the ceiling, refusing to participate in Lars' cruel charade. The killjoy. They both knew what he was doing. The fun had only just begun. He returned back to Sadie and drifted so close that their foreheads nearly touched. He hung in her air for a moment, mindlessly toying with her soft hair. He said loud enough for Ronaldo to hear, "You're the best."

            A mixture of confusion and doubt danced in the girl's wide eyes, and it quickly diluted to perturbed and upset. She jerked out of his embrace and said more to Ronaldo than him, "Uh, it's nothing, really." Then escaped behind Lars into the break room. He watched her until the click of door echoed in the quiet shop.

            He turned and sauntered to the counter, hands in his pockets and blood most likely dampening the fabric. Ronaldo glared at him.

            "I didn't know _you_ worked here. Poor Sadie..."

            "Yeah, she's pretty much the best friend I've ever had." Lars bit.

            Ronaldo groaned, "I know you're just saying things like that to try to work me up. It's not gonna work, Lars."

            "Well," Lars stumbled a bit, his rage started to cloud his mind. Or maybe it was the blood loss. Either way he clenched his jaw and eventually retorted, "I could say the same about you!"

            "Can I just order some donuts? Or am I not 'cool' enough?" He said exasperatedly with air quotes and sarcasm. He added for extra measure, "Are you going to take that opportunity away from me too?"

            Lars could play this game. Lars invented this game. "Sorry, we don't carry ghost donuts even though you'd sacrifice your best friend's well being to get them. You can imagine it all you want, though."

            Ronaldo thrust his arms into the air and growled, "Forget it! I lost my appetite."

            Lars mumbled as Ronaldo headed toward the exit, "Between you and me, you could afford to do that a little more often."

            Right as he was about to push out the door, he stopped short. He faced his slender friend from the past, and placed thoughtful, rehearsed fingers onto his glasses frames so that they hit the light in the exact position to shield his eyes. Lars cringed. He warned, "You know, our childish feud shouldn't interfere with your civic duty as a donut boy. It's not good for business."

            "So? Not much business anyways. Get over yourself, man."

            He continued testily, unaffected by Lars' bickering, a single eye appearing from beneath the glare of his glasses, "I could tell someone in charge how your anger management issues affects your work ethic. Perhaps even have you replaced. It seems like Sadie likes me already."

            Lars slammed his palms onto the counter and seethed in unbridled rage. He snapped, "Why don't you go kill yourself, Ronaldo?"

            Ronaldo had the audacity to tut at him in a chastising manner. "I would never give you the satisfaction."

            He suddenly broke character.

            "Lars? There's... blood. No, you're bleeding." He pointed at the counter, his fingers twitching.

            Lars looked down at his exposed hands. Little puddles of blood dotted the countertop, the deep crimson a stark contrast from the pearly white. Shame hit him like a tidal wave. His vision blurred and his stomach turned. "No I'm not!"

            "Yes, you are." Ronaldo walked toward his friend, cautiously. His eyebrows knotted into his forehead with great concern mixed with a pinch of fear.

            Lars backed up against the wall. "Stop being weird! It's just a prank! Get out of here already! Just, go!"

            "You're the one being weird! Let me see your wound. Did something attack you? Was it a supernatural being? What did it look like?" Ronaldo lurched for Lars' arms.

            "It looked like your mom! Now get out! Nobody wants you here!" Lars pushed him away, but Ronaldo's greater strength allowed him to grab and hold onto Lars' frail and bloodied arms. Lars' heart skipped a beat, maybe five. His temperature rose, turning his skin a deep shade of pink.

            He yelled in Lars' horrified face, "While it may be true that my goal is to keep Beach City weird, it's also my duty to keep Beach City safe, and that includes protecting assholes like you from the strange and mysterious forces that plague our city, unexplained!"

            "Stop!" Lars begged as Ronaldo peeked under his dirty sleeve.

 

 

**L̗̖̖̝̙͖̥̽A̮̦̟̓R̵̥ͨ̀̾̽̍̍Å҉̥̼̼̟M̮̪̞̩ͮi͖̼͍̲͇̳̰͛͠e͚̖͋̑ͧͩ̂͠**

 

 

            Ronaldo's face twisted into an expression of vast horror. He paled at the sight. Lars sniffed, fighting back tears of utter embarrassment, and watching helplessly as Ronaldo put each gruesome piece of the puzzle together.

            “It’s just like the club house...” He remembered when Lars carved his name into the wood. He thought that was a bad idea at the time, now this... He released Lars' arms and took tentative steps backward. His breathing became short and heavy, his whole body rose and fell as he panted. He knew. He _saw._

            "Steven!" He abruptly shouted, half an idea that struck him and half an attempt to call the magical boy here. In panicked, breathless murmurings he said more to himself than to Lars, "Steven will know what to do. Steven can fix this." He ran out the door.

            Lars always remembered Ronaldo as someone who would take matters into his own hands and solve problems his way no matter how many people told him what he was doing or what he thought was wrong or didn't correlate to the actual problem. But this was different. His fight or flight kicked in, and for what may be the first time as far as Lars can tell, flight took over. He knew. He saw. He recognized the marks as self-inflicted instantly without so much of a second thought. How did he know? Why did he care? Now Steven is going to get involved. Now that young, bright eyed, naive kid is going to see. He's going to know. He doesn't deserve this, neither of them do. Steven doesn't deserve to see and Lars doesn't deserve to be everyone's new project.  

            He cursed and kicked the counter so hard he bruised his foot, which made the ocean of shame continue to undulate. Lars crouched in the small space, reduced to nothing but an angry, whimpering fool. He tugged vigorously at the curly tuft of hair on his head as if he could rip it all out and stop this ceaseless ache.

            The door to the break room swung open until it hit the wall. Sadie emerged.

            "It was on the top shelf, not the bottom, sorry. I had a bit of trouble getting to it. I hope-"

            Her words suspended in the empty air. He wrapped his arms around himself, as if that could somehow make him invisible to her, but his shoulders still trembled. He hated that she had to catch him like this. Whatever overcompensation for masculinity he touted daily was immediately negated by this pathetic show of weakness. He couldn't stop. If Ronaldo saw him so transparently, then so would Steven, then the cool kids would be next to find out and he would never be anything more than a feeble, helpless victim. And now, Sadie was about to see, about to know the truth. He was about to lose her.

            The box fell from her finger tips and hit the floor, some bandages and medical packets unceremoniously spilling out. She rushed to his side. Without thinking, she pressed into his back, feeling the ridges of his spine in this hunched over position. She rubbed his shoulders, and shushed him. That made him feel so much worse. He lamely elbowed her off. He didn't deserve her pity. He thought he craved it, but now that he was found out, revealed to be a lonely little liar, he pushed her away for the sake of both their fragile hearts. Everything was so fucked up. He fucked everything up. He wished he could go back to believing all this fiction could draw everyone near instead of drowning.

            Sadie's words were a muddied echo, as if a bomb had gone off in Lars' ringing ears. "What the heck happened while I was gone? Lars?"

            He shook his head, afraid to speak. He hid in his knees and wrapped himself together tightly, afraid to let her see his face or his shame. He should have never come into work today. He should have never woken up at all. Every day was so pointless and humiliating. He wished everyone and everything would stop. Fuck Ronaldo. Fuck Steven. Fuck his parents, this beach, this cold tile floor, fuck the cool kids. Fuck Sadie. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck this.

            "I just want to go home!" He cried pathetically, his voice wet with sobs.

            Sadie nodded. "Okay." She said, so sweetly. He knew she was disappointed. "You can go home."

            She patted his shoulder as if to say, "Time to get up now." But he wouldn't budge. She lifted under his armpit, but he was completely limp. He could see the blood but felt nothing. Everything was numb. Why couldn't he feel? There must be something wrong.

            He eventually gripped the counter and steadied himself to stand. The only thing he could feel was Sadie's gaze on him, desperate and confused, but he refused to look at her. She knew. She looked away too.

            The door chimed again, like the bells of hell. Ronaldo waited outside diffidently as Steven entered.

            "Let me see." He said, so much more maturely than usual, hands held out for Lars to place his arms in.

            This time he did glance at Sadie who now respectfully turned away, though he could see her insatiable curiosity in the tilt of her neck towards her shoulder.

            "No." He told Steven curtly, crossing his arms.

            "Lars!" The boy cried, furious but anguished.

            With one last peek at Sadie he complied, reluctantly.

            Grief immediately struck Steven once the red entered his vision. He wordlessly asked Lars for consent with eyes already misting up. Lars averted his eyes, wanting to deny him access, wanting to die, but unable to speak. Steven carefully slid the gray and now slightly pink sleeves up his arms to reveal numerous, thick lacerations, some Lars could barely even recall making.      

            His brows furrowed in confoundment, aging him beyond his years. Lars couldn’t decipher whether the kid understood or not, but that did not displace his empathy. The boy hung his head, dark curls shielding his face, but did not let go of Lars' arms even as his shoulders shook. Lars tugged to no avail. He scowled at Steven's bouncing shoulders.

            "What? Are you laughing at me?!" He accused the boy who shackled him in his grip.

            "No, Lars, I'd rather weep." Steven said brokenly, head still bowed in shadow.

            Lars stopped struggling for a moment to eye him skeptically, offended and appalled. "At what?!"

            Steven looked him in the eyes. Something was off, something so subtle that Lars couldn't place it, but he knew it felt wrong. A slightly crooked pupil. A glitch in reality. Steven whispered.

            **"At thy good heart's oppression."**

 

           

             

           

 

 

           

 

           

**Author's Note:**

> Lars thought he had enough of this.


End file.
